


Buttons

by JustAMus



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dating, F/M, Fellatio, Fingering, Fluffy, Intelligence Kink, Multiple Orgasms, Not that much plot, Romance, Size mismatch kink, Sweet, arguments about poetry, crossplaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:58:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAMus/pseuds/JustAMus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss Pauling has to escort the Heavy on a supervised R&R in Paris, and finds there is far more to the man than just a mobile weapons platform.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First button

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a request for Medacris on Tumblr.

_One button, then the next. Left over right._ Miss Pauling looked up at her dressing table mirror, catching her tongue sticking out in concentration. She pulled it back in, readjusted her glasses, and glared at herself in the mirror. Who knew men’s shirts buttoned up the other way? It was tricky when her fingers obstinately wanted to resort to muscle memory; she had refastened the buttons at least once already.

_Tuck the shirt tails into the waistband, then pull the belt in tight. Fold the too-long trouser cuffs under, and discreetly fasten with safety pins._ She creaked the little box open, and stared at the plain silver cufflinks inside. They had belonged to her father. All these years later, she still missed him. She shook herself free of the fog of nostalgia, and fumbled the cufflinks painstakingly into place. _Hm, I don’t look too bad in a men’s shirt_ , she thought, peering in the mirror. The belted waist pulled the wool of the pants taut across ample hips, and her bust made a definite curve in the front of the shirt.

_Use sleeve bands to shorten overlong sleeves. Put on jacket. Place items only in internal pockets. Forego the tie._ She buttoned the suit jacket, then quickly unbuttoned it again when she saw how the neckline bowed out under the assault of her curves. She was wearing this to look more professional, which seemed unfortunately to mean dressing like a man. In her case, in a second-hand suit, a rather short one. She quickly grabbed a hair tie and scraped tendrils of dark hair back from her face, twisting them into the low bun of habit. Checking the time – she was going to be late meeting him in the bar! – she hurriedly wriggled her feet into the sensible pumps, and scrambled out the door.

As the doors closed and the lift began its descent, Miss Pauling closed her eyes to quiet the butterflies in her stomach, wiping damp palms on fine wool worsted.

***

It had all started when the Announcer had reached the end of her tether with regard to the Heavy Weapons Fighter’s faltering killscore. A not-really-optional invitation to his team Medic for a consultative meeting had turned up not only the fact that the Russian’s PTSD (fully documented in triplicate, no less) had been flaring up lately, but also that nothing any of his teammates could do was helping. The worried Medic had prescribed stronger and stronger sleeping pills, but these also had the side effect of slowing him down in combat the next day. Faced with the prospect of reams of very expensive and invalid data from the system, the Announcer had thrown her hands up and decreed that the Heavy was to have paid leave in a city of his choice, in the hopes that it would help him recover his fighting form.

“And Rhonda? You’re going too.” The Announcer had barked, tossing a small folder down on the desk.

“W-why? I mean, why do I need to—“ She had opened the folder to find tickets to Paris, travel documents, and a fat envelope stuffed with francs. “Helen, I can’t just—“

“Don’t you ‘ _Helen I can’t_ ’ me, Rhonda. That man is unbalanced right now, and needs a chaperone while wandering around a major population centre. Think of this as a secondment. Buy yourself something nice while you’re there. You young girls like shoes… and things..” An offhand flip of the wrist as Helen turned, considering the conversation over.

“But Helen, honestly, why _me_? If he goes on a rampage, I can hardly stop him from—“ Feeling hugely daring, Rhonda had ventured the objection, only to be cut off.

“You can and will. Why you? Because you’re a microbe, and inoffensive enough to not trigger any violent episodes. And because you have some of the sharpest eyes I have under me. You’ll steer him clear of anything that’ll make him worse. Now get moving, and bring him back either fixed or talking.” A dismissive shooing motion of the wrist, from behind a gathering cloud of cigarillo smoke. And Rhonda had indeed gotten moving, pride at the unexpected praise warring with nerves.

***

Why on earth was she here in Paris, playing den mother for a giant Cossack man-mountain, who could probably squirt her skull right out of her head like a bar of soap out of a wet hand? It still seemed like make-work to her. The ridiculousness of the image made a bubble of dark humour rise, and she barely managed to turn the giggle into a cough as the lift doors opened. Her heels clicked on the warm, honey coloured marble floor as she made her way to the restaurant.

The interior of the restaurant was opulent with crystal, gilded mouldings and velvet banquettes, yet warmly lit by candles and sconces. The fawning maitre’d conducted her to the polished mahogany bar, and her eyes widened with startlement to see the Heavy perched easily on a barstool. The charcoal suit fit well across the not inconsiderable span of his shoulders – of course, he could well afford bespoke tailoring – and the crystal tumbler cupped in his hand seemed neither incongruous nor comically undersized. The detail that most drew her eye was the awkward set of his neck and shoulders. The Heavy was just as nervous as she was! He had probably received even less of a briefing than she had; she straightened a touch, feeling a little less dowdy, a little more certain of herself, and put a hand out for shaking. “Good evening, Mister Heavy Weapons Fighter.”

“Ivan. Call me Ivan. Is not name, but will do.” Her eyes widened, and he smiled – surprisingly kindly – at her surprise, little amiable wrinkles crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “If we have dinner together, you cannot keep saying ‘Meester Heavy’. Will scare waiters,” he explained, flashing startlingly white teeth.

“Oh. Of course! In that case, please call me Rhonda. That _is_ my name, however. “ Rhonda laughed nervously, her hand all but engulfed in his palm. “I think our table is ready. Shall we go?”

“Da. Of course.“ With a crooked grin, he offered her an elbow which she took, despite it being about at her shoulder height. He pulled out her chair for her, conducting her into her seat with an overblown flourish that left her laughing again. Despite his obvious discomfort, the Heav—no, Ivan – was making an effort to put her at ease, and Rhonda was touched. They opened their menus, and pored over the various choices, written in ornate calligraphy. In the golden light from the candles on the table, she watched surreptitiously as he extracted a pair of reading glasses from a jacket pocket and perched them on his nose. When the waiter returned, Rhonda dredged up hazy memories of high school language classes, ordering in halting phrases. To his credit, the waiter didn’t turn a hair, simply writing it down. When he circled the table to Ivan’s side, however, Rhonda was astonished when the Russian man ordered in fluent French, the liquid syllables in his basso rumble like glacier melt.

Another, older gentleman was summoned, the three of them consulting, heads bowed, over the leatherbound lists. As the staff left a few minutes later in a rustle of crisp linen, Ivan met her eyes with an engaging smile. “I order wine for us. Château Laville Haut-Brion 1937. I hope you not mind; is okay?”

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all! I-Ivan, I never knew you spoke French. Do you speak any other languages?” It dawned on Rhonda that her assumptions of the larger man had been too hasty, and she berated herself inwardly. He’s a man, a person. _Not just another faceless employee. For shame, Rhonda!_

“French, I learn early. Was language of Tsar and Court. Friend in gulag was in White Army. I also speak Latvian, Lithuanian, Serbian, Polish and Suomi. And Russian. Of course!” His chuckle was low but infectious, and Rhonda found herself laughing with him. “I learn while working. Travel a lot.”

The older gentleman returned – the sommelier, she realised – with a bottle with a faded, ornate label. The presentation, opening and inspection of the wine proceeded smoothly, with minimal fuss. As Rhonda watched Ivan swirl the amber wine in the glass, large fingers familiar and easy on the delicate stem, she felt some tension leave her shoulders. _Clearly there is far more to him than what is merely in the dossiers_ , she mused. _And for a wonder, I want to find out._


	2. Second button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dinner, a meeting of minds. And more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Ultrabaguette from Tumblr, for her help.

Dinner was a wonder; Rhonda had tasted things she had never heard of, with flavours that had been a revelation to a quiet girl from the Midwest. Esoteric French names swirled around in her recollection, words like Chateau Mouton-Roschild, sanglier, navarin.. The wine had gone to both their heads; hers far more than his, of course. It was late, and they had been discreetly evicted from their table when the candles guttered. They hardly noticed, their conversation continuing unbroken as they entered the lift in the hushed marble lobby.

Rhonda gestured broadly, dark eyes flashing with passion. “I can’t believe y’re saying such horrid t’ingsh about Rimbaud! I love his work! The imagery, the raww emotional content—“

“—Pretensions and romanticised classist snobbery..” sniped Ivan smoothly, one large finger upraised in mockery of a dry professor. “Andrey Bely much better. Richer. Unification of music and prose.” They exited the lift at the appropriate floor, voices only slightly softer in the silent corridor.

“Overblown braggart w’th delusions o’ linking th’whole artistic sphere.” Rhonda dismissed him with a teetering flip of the hand, not realising she had picked that gesture up from Helen.

“That I will grant. At least Symbolists bring light to world. Not prosaic like Solzhenitsyn. Ivan Denisovich boring to man from gulag. Prefer even Zamyatin.” He brandished the room key floridly, and unlocked the door, his words sputtering to a halt as he realised she was following him into the room. “Rhonda. Why you come in?”

“Because it’s my room too, silly? They w’re full up, and couldn’t give ‘s separate rooms. Some sort of Ambassador is ‘n town. “ Rhonda doffed her overlarge jacket, draping it idly on the floor lamp, and kicked off her pumps. “Don’ worry about it. “

Ivan stared at the enormous bed – bed, singular – with the expression of a dyspeptic polar bear given a sheet of quadratic equations. “Then they can stay in embassy. But now where is leetle Rhonda to sleep?”

“I said, don’t worry about me! They have lots of spare blankets and pillows, and I’ll make a nest on the carpet over there or something. “ She pointed at the far side of the huge room, while jamming the sleeve bands and cufflinks into their box with the other hand. “But y’ can’t be serious about Zamyatin!”

Ivan turned. “Tiny Rhonda cannot sleep on floor. Is not solution. “ His brows knit as he tried to come up with alternatives. He was nowhere near as drunk as she was, but tipsy enough that thinking was harder than it should have been.

Rhonda slipped her belt out of the loops, and draped it over the back of the chair. “Even Stalin threw him out! The man’s a hack!” Her eyes narrowed as Ivan stared confusedly into the distance.

Ivan had had enough of the argument. “Enough!” his voice raised, aggrieved. “I will sleep on floor. Rhonda will sleep in bed! Leetle lady should have proper blanket!”

“Look, you— you big moose! This bed is huuuuge!” She gestured at the mattress, which was scaled for a rock star, plus entourage. “We can both fit on this thing.”

Ivan looked slightly doubtful, and scratched at one ear, while he slipped off his suit jacket. “You are sure? I do not want to roll over and crush you. You are tiny like baby. ” He ducked his head sheepishly, blushing slightly.

“I’m sure I’ll manage, “she blurted, cheeks pinking slightly to match. “I-I’ll go get changed in the bathroom. Th’ one onna left.” Scrabbling in her bag, one hand preventing her trousers from falling down, Rhonda grabbed her nightcase and padded through the ankle-deep carpet to the bathroom.

She returned some minutes later, hair brushed out, in lilac cotton pyjamas. Ivan was sitting up reading, the familiar reading glasses gleaming in the pool of light from the bedside lamp. The covers were loosely draped around his massive frame, which did nothing to conceal that he was clad only in a pair of boxers (were those really little miniguns all over them?). At her approach, he looked up and smiled, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Did not know would be sharing room. Do not normally sleep in clothes.”

Rhonda’s eyes widened fractionally at the mental image. The partial shadows only served to emphasise the fact that Ivan’s bulk was, despite the Scout’s taunts, far from fat. The heavyset Russian was powerfully built, his scarred, broad chest sparsely sprinkled with crisp, dark hair, and muscles that had shifted visibly in arm and abdomen when he lowered his book. The thought of that near-geological expanse of smooth, pale skin, stretched out _naked_.. She flushed to the hairline, and chastely climbed into her side of the vast bed, trying to ignore the fluttering deep in her belly. To defuse her silence, she asked, darting a glance over her shoulder at him, “What are you reading? Is it good?”

“You would not like. Is Andrey Bely.” There was a definite amusement in his voice, as he turned the page. She crawled across the bed on all fours, peering at the faded Cyrillic lettering stamped on the leather cover.

“Try me. I mean, read me some and see? Unless it’s in Russian?” If at all possible, she blushed even harder. Ivan smiled amiably, looking at her over the top of the book.

“I can try translate for you. But is better in Russian.” He cleared his throat with a basso rumble. “Here it is:

> "The flickering landscape is burning  
>  Its last: mid-day stars newly-kindled  
>  Look into my soul, sparkling: “Welcome,”  
>  With radiance silently streaming:  
>  “The end of long wanderings, brother,  
>  Lies here, in your motherland, welcome!”
> 
> Slow hour upon hour in procession,  
>  Slow centuries, smiling, pass onward.  
>  In ancient space proudly I lift it,  
>  My glimmering goblet: the Sun. “

”..Wow. That was beautiful.” She met his gaze, dark eyes wide. “…But still. Bely is the most pompous poet I have ever read.”

“Bely is great man. You do not understand.” Ivan took off his glasses, placing both them and the book on the bedside table. “Russian is better. ” He smilingly poked her on the forehead with a forefinger. 

Rhonda grabbed at the poking finger, “Bely is a stuffed shirt with delusions of grandeur.”

“You cannot have finger. I need finger for Sasha.”

She sat up, greatly daring, still hanging on to his hand, earnest rosy face mere inches from his. “But don’t you see how he was writing for the establishmen’ an’ ‘is reputation an’ not f’r Art..”

Ivan pulled his finger firmly from her grasp, then leaned forward and kissed her.

Rhonda’s mouth went slack with surprise as her words ground to a halt. She froze for a moment, and suddenly she was kissing him back. His lips were warm and strong, with the slight rasp of stubble. She clung to him, fingers splayed across his broad cheek. Haltingly and gently, his mouth coaxed hers open, their tongues meeting at the border, at first hesitantly, then with greater boldness. He tasted like brandy and herbs and toothpaste, and the echoes of several bottles of wine on his breath made her head spin and a distant ache arise, low in her belly.

She broke the kiss when she remembered to breathe, looking up at him with an expression of befuddled wonder. “Wow.”

“Da. Wow is good word for this,” Ivan whispered, his thumb stroking down her cheek, and tucking a curl behind her ear. “Is-is this good thing? You wish to stop? Thought maybe— ” He looked somewhat shaken and uncertain of himself. A sudden wave of tenderness and affection swelled up in her, and she wrapped an arm about his neck, pulling him closer.

“No. Don’t stop. I don’ wanna.” And she reached for him again. With a soft groan, his lips fell on hers like wet silk, breathing her in, as he lay her gently back on the crisp linen sheets. As their mouths slid upon each other, she felt his hands caressing her through the pyjama top, outlining the lines and curves of her. One hand fumbled at the fastenings, and Ivan broke the kiss with a muttered oath as a button popped off. “Sorry.” Rhonda smiled shyly and undid the buttons as he chuckled sheepishly, easing the shirt open, revealing that her rosy blush had indeed travelled quite a distance. “Um, Ivan?”

“Da? I mean, yes?” He stopped and looked a little hesitant.

She desperately wanted to put him at ease. “I haven’t.. done this in a while. A long time. But I’m protected. That’s okay, right?” Rhonda babbled nervously.

Ivan looked relieved. “Is okay. We go slow. Unless you say.” He winked, mock solemnly, as his hands cupped the weight of her breasts, dwarfing them. The slightly calloused pad of his thumb rasped in little circles around the areolas, and he relaxed visibly as they crinkled and stiffened. He bent to take one tiny point in his mouth, teasing the other with the edge of a nail, the sudden sensation making her squirm with the answering ache between her thighs. His lips moved to the other nipple to circle and lave with his tongue, before trailing hot, soft kisses down her torso to her belly. His fingers stroked her sides, the curve of her breasts, the inward dip of her waist, the feathery brush of his lips over the curve of her belly and the hollow of her hips making her writhe. His fingers traced the waistband of her pyjama bottoms, before gently hooking into it with one finger. “Is okay?”

“Y-yeah. S’okay.” Rhonda lifted her hips as the bottoms were slipped off, the sudden cool air on her legs only adding to her gooseflesh. She both hoped and dreaded that her pounding heart was audible, her lips suddenly clumsy. Ivan cupped her bottom, his broad hands curving around her hips, gently stroking her legs and thighs until they parted. He lowered himself between her thighs, gazing for a long moment at her mound. Rhonda teetered between heat and embarrassment, knowing that the shadowed dampness was all too clear on the faded gusset. Ivan traced the edges of her panties slowly with one finger, barely hovering over the soft skin, before again hooking into the waistband. He slid that finger to rest over the very top of her cleft, where the dampness began, pressing in little circles, as he breathed kisses on her thighs, rubbing the slick cotton over sensitive skin, coaxing her heart into a gallop.

When Ivan leaned forward and mouthed the damp fabric, hot breath puffing through the cotton, Rhonda let out a little squeak. This turned to a giggle as he carefully pulled the scrap of white off and down her thighs with only his teeth, grinning mischievously. He dropped her panties on the floor behind him, his gaze sharpening and heating as he noticed the trailing threads of her excitement. He caught at one reverently, bringing his finger to his lips, tasting with relish. “I am glad you like. “ He briefly knelt up to slide her further up the covers, and Rhonda caught sight of the impressive and undeniable proof of his arousal. Any apprehension at Ivan’s intimate dimensions, however, were swept away as he lowered himself again, warm, soft mouth first tasting, then devouring her with a gentle, methodical ferocity. He licked slowly, taking his time, plying every fold and ridge with broad strokes of the flat of his tongue, with pinpoint pressure from the tip, the edge, and striping with the slick underside. He sucked folds and lips, exploring them with the edges of his teeth, lipping and grazing with the roughness of stubble.

Rhonda could barely contain the stream of moans and whimpers falling from her lips. Her thighs trembled under his broad palms, her hips bucking up involuntarily towards him, dry mouth biting at one restless hand. When Ivan slid one thick, calloused finger into her heated depths, she fell apart with a shrill cry, bucking sharply with her orgasm. A second finger curled gently inside her, and started to swivel and thrust, and her eyes flew open in shock. “No—oh!” She barely had time to breathe before new waves of pleasure swamped her awareness, her spine curling like a cracked whip. She let out a strangled, surprised, guttural squeal, her eyes then flared wide, then squeezed shut, her weakened hands clawing impotently at his wrist, the high, fluting cries like distant hawks calling almost-words to the sky. Ivan’s other hand slid down onto her flexing belly, pinning down the shifting hips, holding the flexing tissues between her hips down with a gentle but irresistable pressure, the nerves riding the fingers arching up into them with tip and knuckle. The world shifted from white to blue and she could barely breathe. She arched like a bow, thighs trembling, hands beating the sheets like blind birds and screaming a high wail that trailed off as her voice gave out, in a liquid gush all over Ivan’s hand.


	3. Last button

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turnabout is fair play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Ultrabaguette on Tumblr for her help.

When she recovered from her daze a minute or so later, Rhonda found herself cradled against Ivan’s massive torso, as he reclined against the headboard. He was stroking her sweat-damp hair, while licking the fingers of his other hand with a lazy smile and every sign of enjoyment. “Wow,” She said, for the second time that evening. She stretched against him, catlike, getting the cricks out of her neck. “That was amazing. I’ve never ever had anything like it. “She ran a shaky hand over his chest, tracing the scars, and playing with the broad, flat nipple. At his sudden hiss of pleasure, she rolled over, taking it in her mouth and worrying at it with lips and teeth. Emboldened, she rubbed the thigh and knee of one leg over his erection, still sadly imprisoned and straining in his boxers, watching it shift and swell further with her attention. She stroked it briefly through the silk, while laving at Ivan’s rivet-hard nipples with her tongue, listening to Ivan’s moan, more felt than heard, bordering on a deep tiger purr.

Rhonda sat up, throwing her sweaty pyjama top aside, and kneeling to peer at Ivan’s hardness like a child at a fascinating rock pool. She deftly unfastened the buttons, allowing it to rear free of its restraints, then curled slender fingers around the heavy column. Ivan was more than appropriately endowed, his cock slightly thicker than her own tiny wrist, the velvety foreskin already pulled back from the ruddy glans, and a crystalline drop of precum dewing the opening. She bent to lick it off, grasping at the shaft with both hands, the swollen head all but filling her mouth. He tasted salty-sweet, the clean, musky scent of male filling her senses, the silken veins throbbing against her lips. Not the longest cock she’d ever met, but certainly the thickest. Rhonda swirled her tongue around the flared crest, dipping it into the opening, gaining confidence while her hands rubbed up and down the shaft, cupping his balls, sliding the foreskin rhythmically back and forth. Ivan let out a gasp, and a guttural groan, one hand stroking her hair. She moaned in answer, enjoying his responsiveness, the vibrations from her mouth making his hips twitch.

Ivan’s warm hand cupping her jaw. “You not have to do this. I can— “He gestured at his own groin with a curled fist. “Am maybe too big. You are— “He gasped again, as she trailed pointed nails over the velvet skin of his scrotum, tickling the inner thighs, and swirled the tip of her tongue under the fold of foreskin.

“Mmm?” More vibration on the head of his cock, and Ivan’s head fell back against the headboard. Rhonda pulled her mouth free, sucking firmly on the plump crown and just raking the crest with the edge of her teeth. “I _have_ done this before, Ivan. And you did say that I was setting the pace, didn’t you?” Her voice dipped to a silky purr. “Don’t worry about me. “With a cheeky grin, she started licking and kissing her way down the shaft, lipping and nipping at the fold of foreskin, tracing the veins with her tongue, busy hands stroking at perineum and sliding firmly around the base of the throbbing cock. Ivan did not answer, at least not in words, baritone moans and whimpers leaking from his parted lips. His hips bucked involuntarily from the sensations, the lubricated shaft slipping through her hands.

Rising to her knees, Rhonda licked Ivan’s salty flavour from her lips. “Raise your hips, Ivan sweetie, do, ” she cooed, sliding his boxers, damp from saliva and precum, down his treetrunk legs, and flinging them onto the floor. The thought of this man-mountain, this lethal juggernaut, willingly at the sensual mercy of herself, a petite woman barely a third his size, stoked the rising heat in her belly, and she felt a flutter of excitement. She clambered up, stretching her legs, to sit astride him, sliding her heated flesh along his shaft. The friction of his tender skin on her sparking nerves made her eyelids flicker, and both she and he let out identical huffs of pleasure. Leaning forward, she kissed him deeply, tasting the salt from his sweat as well as her own dew. Ivan’s tongue flickered along the inner surfaces of her lips and Rhonda’s eyes closed as she reached behind her, guiding the enormous domed end of his cock to her slippery opening. Ivan’s eyes widened as the flared head slipped into her, followed slowly by the rest, inch after inexorable inch, forcing her wide open, her glistening flesh stretched around his girth. He groaned wordlessly and gutturally as his cock slid into her wet, tight heat, his hands encompassing her tiny waist as she straddled him. Her head tilted back, mouth slack from the sensation of being filled to the brim, having taken in all but the very last inch.

Rhonda leaned forward to kiss him again, as she started to move, rocking forward and back, sliding along the massive shaft. At first gingerly, then with greater confidence. Her eyes flew open, then widened in startlement; she had never been so tightly filled, and the intensity of sensation triggered off crashing waves of pleasure, arching her back into juddering orgasm. She clung to Ivan for dear life, clawing for air. The huge cock inside her seemed to touch every single deep nerve in her core, kindling sparks into flame, swamping her with sensation. Ivan held on to her as well, jaw set; the waves of spasming pressure around his shaft as she shook in orgasm were so intense that it was all he could do not to come. The wild abandon of her ecstatic cries as she convulsed in his arms was unbelievably erotic; this tiny, perfect Venus, wholly given over to pleasure, that he of all people had given. He showered kisses on her clenching fingers, watching her shudder, face by turns languid and frenzied, palming her breasts and pulling at her garnet-hard nipples. His cock felt heavy as hot iron, the pressure gathering at the base of his spine. And when Rhonda flung weakened arms around his neck, and bit down hard on the scarred muscle of his shoulder, he was lost. The brief stab of pain reddened the torrent of molten pleasure that uncurled like a spring in his core, and he came with a roar, clutching Rhonda tightly with careful hands.

What seemed like days later, but was in reality most likely just minutes, Ivan opened blurry eyes to find Rhonda gazing at him, stroking the sueded stubble on his head. “Hello there, “ she grinned mischievously.

“Hello.” He smiled back dazedly, cupping her shoulder with a broad hand. “You are okay?” He was still flushed, heart still cantering from his orgasm.

She brushed her sweaty hair out of her eyes with one hand. “Oh yes. I’m more than okay. I’m marvellous,” she purred. “You know, Ivan? It’s a good thing this bed is so big.” A tiny wicked smile as she slid off the bed, and pressed a kiss to his damp forehead.

“Why?” He wrinkled his brow, fighting post-coital sluggishness. She padded off in the direction of the bathroom, turning just long enough to call over her shoulder, chuckling, “Because that is a hell of a wet spot, and this way neither of us have to sleep in it!”

Ivan laughed quietly to himself as his eyelids drooped, and he drifted asleep between one breath and the next.


End file.
